We just passed the two-year anniversary of Tom’s death. Like last year, mom and dad and I went into the city, had a meal at Absinthe, and spent some time at the water where we scattered his ashes.
It felt different from last year. Last year had marked the end of a year of firsts; first birthday, first Thanksgiving, first Christmas, first year without him.
In some ways, the second year was also a year of firsts because, let’s be honest, every day is different, even if in some small way. I have to admit I felt more numb this past year. I was worried that I was getting used to his being gone, but it turned out that wasn’t true.
I still talk about him every day. Every single day.
“The days are long but the years are short” is one of Gretchen Rubin’s “secrets of adulthood.” Reflecting on Tom’s life I agree: the years were short. But the years of mourning have been short as well. Over the past two years there have been days that I thought would never end. But those two years have flown by. It’s been two years since I heard his voice, seen his face, held his hand. It feels like yesterday, and forever ago.